In Queue for Review

I’m at the quiet period between submissions that occupies too much of most writers’ time.  There’s no decision yet for any of the pieces I’ve submitted, nor can I expect one for several weeks more.  “In queue for review,” “in-progress.”  “Received.”  Nonempathic phrases that give no clue as to whether a piece has found it’s place or whether it’s back to me for another round.  It’s the slow suck that can drag a body down if his current writing endeavors don’t prove hope or distraction enough to divert him from a sense like shouting poetry to brick walls.

One piece, already accepted, prep’d for monday.  Non-fiction.  Non-paying.  I wrote it for something specific with less than a week from start to submission.  I didn’t have enough time with it to really feel invested in its success.  

The needles in my foot have ground down to rough grit.  I don’t walk with much of a limp.  Tomorrow I’ll go back to kung fu, maybe friday I’ll start eating meat again.  Cherry juice, lime, water, fruit.  I handled this attack without medication.  It didn’t last any longer than those I’ve had before that I did treat with pills.  The bottle of toxin, the one that’s overdose is nearly assured if scientific obsessiveness isn’t applied, remains as full as it did on sunday.  I’d rather have a limp than a rotted brain, than further tattered nerves.

I can’t see the story in this.  All these strange experiences, this bizarre existence I’m coming to realize is not common, is not like that of most people, and I can’t seem to be bothered even to catalogue it.  I’m fixated on creating new things, on forcing a stubborn story through.  The conjoined, sixteen room house; the ailments; the ideology; the martial arts; height; health; all the things that make me unaverage, that seem to make for successful publishing bids in creative non-fiction journals, don’t interest me.  They don’t draw my attention.  Out of writerly self-preservation I should be mining them, should be taking my thoughts and experiences and turning them into pieces, but I’m too close to them.  Only by contrast do I even notice them, and then, they don’t seem interesting.  I’m a terrible audience for myself.

What I need is a vacation.  I need time away form my life, from my normal self.  One hopes then that I’d see some resource I regularly overlook, some inspiration beyond passing fancy.

At the very least I’d have something new to think about.